


Want Not

by Missy



Category: Telephone - Lady Gaga ft Beyoncé (Music Video)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dark, F/F, Fatal attractions, Folly Au Deux, Murder Sprees, Romance, car crashes, motel sex, strip clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 15:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19726006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: She doesn't approve.  At first.





	Want Not

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Telephone (music video), HoneyB/Lady Gaga, Locked up in a hotel room, on the run from the police. Anything to stop being bored.

They met in the backstage area of a burlesque show, covered in grime and sweat. Because their lives apparently weren’t Russ Myerian enough in the first place. Gaga had just shot some sparks from her conical bra, and Honey B was getting ready to go on with her salute to Eartha Kitt.

“God, I need to get out of this shithole,” Gaga says out of the blue while fixing her eyeliner (it’s coal-black, the color of pitch, and HoneyB will remember this when they’re mixing up poison in the back of her friend’s restaurant. HoneyB will be cooler than Gaga someday – able to pull off this shit without even blinking, but at the moment she’s sitting at the other woman’s knee with a look of awe on her face). 

“So do I,” she admits, grunting as she gets up. “The tips are fine, but the owner, man…”

“I know,” Gaga says solemnly. “I can think of one way to fix that.”

HoneyB raises an eyebrow. Gaga’s got an eye on her nail file. It’s sharp enough to cut through flesh, with enough force and enough malice. “You don’t mean that.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Have a Sunday picnic with Lou?” she snorted, practically spit on the ground. “He’s not the kind of guy who plays nice and listens when you talk pretty.”

“Why don’t we just leave? Get in a car? Get the hell out of here?”

“Because I’ve got a debt to settle with that asshole,” said Gaga. “And it’s gotta be paid in blood.”

“You could fix it.”

Gaga reached for her face then, rubbing off a smudge of smeared lipstick. “Some people can’t be fixed, baby,” Gaga says. She shrugs on her dress and grabs her purse. Apparently there will be work done later, but Honey Bee won’t know about it until after she’s gotten offstage and Gaga’s been arrested for felonious assault.

*** 

She’s ready by the time Gaga’s released. She gets the car done and her nails polished, and fixes her hair up just so. She has no idea what’s on the other end of this ride – a monster or the new, better version of herself. It’s both, neither – a release of revenge and energy into the world. She and Gaga are ready for it.

Every second that Gaga’s been in the clink, HoneyB’s been thinking, her mind changing – hating the small petty feeling of being under heel, and Imagining what they’re going to do if they team up, when they team up. They’d be a hurricane, unstoppable – a force worth reckoning with under any and every circumstance.

And so out into the desert they would go. 

*** 

They have a short list of people they want to get rid of. HoneyB’s shitty ex-boyfriend, who cheated on her relentlessly, mostly with women half her age. The dog that bit Gaga. The cook who turned them both down for positions when they.

Others died that day just because they were there. A little kid. A whole family. A priest, HoneyB thinks (Gaga tells her not to think. Thinking is useless, unless it helps you get what you want.). All of them sacrificed on their pyre of their egos, wants and sociopathy. It was sort of a magical thing, to give up every single thing they thought they would be for the everlasting hope of what they might become. For the future, the ‘now’ instead of the later. 

It was easy enough to find the right poison. Easy enough to apply it and watch them all choke to death, then rob the register and be gone.

**

They spend hours fucking at the motel the night after, their mouths fused like hot led, Hands diving deep down panties and fingers exploring hot, wet pussies. They fuck like they’re being watched. Like they’re on a game show and live under the demand of a clapping studio audience.

They’ve spun their own wheels and made their own deals, and sex tastes like victory and tire rubber, asphalt and death.

**** 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a total genius?”

Gaga’s flattery will get her everywhere – or so she hopes, apparently. They’re sitting in a motel room, and rumors have been flying around all day that the cops have been seen circling the block. It’s either going to be a bang or a fizzle, a blaze of glory or falling face-first into a mud puddle. HoneyB is ready for either. “Only me when I look into the mirror,” she said. But she kissed Gaga a thank-you for her effort, then went back to primping in the mirror.

They barely heard the sirens on time. Barely got out of the way before things went wild. They drove for miles with the sun beating down on their heads, wicked and sharp like a hammer blow. Then there was nothing that either of them could hold on to but one another, so they clung and hoped that whatever dark entity had supported them thus far was indeed still looking out for them. 

The miles sped by. Her hand was locked in Gaga’s. She could smell that alkaline perfume of hers – jizz and sweat, love and disgust. They were racing toward the edge of the world it seemed. HoneyB didn’t care. They were together and she hoped they always would be so.

90\. 100.

The Pussy Wagon lurched and spilled them out in sharp angles and screams, bones grinding into bones. They fell like ragdolls, arms thrown around each other’s necks, clinging desperately to the only good thing left in the world, the only pure and just thing.

She held on to Gaga with one head – but spread her arms wide to embrace the stony future that awaited her. When she closed her eyes for the last time and threw her head back, she felt like she was flying like a cannonball, leaving holes and trails of blood wherever she lingered, a mess that no one but she could – and would never – clean up.


End file.
